


Sealed With A Kiss

by Shampain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to derail Abaddon while he searches for the First Blade, Crowley offers her a deal - that neither of them will directly attack the other, and that their war will be fought by their followers. Abaddon agrees, but when they kiss to seal the deal, a few things go awry. Post Episode 9x11, canon will veer off from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealed With A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> So I love this pairing, but wanted to put a slightly different spin on it. Crossroads demons seal their deals with kisses. We haven't seen Crowley lock lips with anyone in awhile - why not Abaddon? Just business, of course.

Abaddon was in California. It made sense that she would harbour herself somewhere sunny when she wasn't in Hell; after all, she strongly favoured a meatsuit that pranced around like some sort of Golden Hollywood movie starlet, if it happened to be outfitted with a machine gun. Ridiculous, but to each demon their own, he supposed; he himself was prone to libraries, dark offices with mahogany, and leather. In a way, it was their individual tastes which made them easy to find, and could contribute to their undoing. When Crowley had gone underground years back after falling onto Lucifer's Most Wanted list, he'd occupied the spaces no one would ever have expected him to in order to stay off the radar. And it had worked for him, more or less, until he began sticking his neck out.

So really, she definitely wasn't as smart as he had first considered her to be, but not by much. He had relatively low opinions of Abaddon from the get-go. She was brutish, and her ways were old and savage. Savagery had its place, but he preferred to keep his own hidden. He had no intention in letting anyone know that he could wipe out an entire demon's nest without breaking a sweat, or that he had easily beaten a demon as ferocious as Meg to a pulp before finally killing her. Those were facts that needed to be concealed, for his own safety. It was good to be considered dangerous, but never as dangerous as you actually _were_.

After all, her defences were also definitely below his abilities at breaking and entering. Keeping Crowley out was always a difficult task if you also happened to be of Hell; the most useful warding symbols were dangerous enough that Abaddon wouldn't risk accidentally locking herself in or out with one if she wasn't paying attention.

Then again, maybe Abaddon just didn't care if he found her or not. 

So it was that he appeared in her sitting room on a lazy Wednesday at around two in the afternoon, wondering if this was a trap, and interested to see if that was indeed the case. Abbadon was wearing her adopted style of rockabilly punk, lounging on a couch, soaking in the sunlight that came through the sliding glass doors. As soon as he appeared she sat up, hackles raising like an angry animal, and opened her mouth. He held up his hand, unimpressed.

"Oh," Crowley said. "Don't call your dogs. I'm just here for a chat. You still know the art of discussion, don't you?"

"Is that what you call what you do, art?" she scoffed. "If this is some ridiculous attempt to wipe out your competition, you're really going about it the wrong way. I'll just bring my boys in."

"I've no intention in attacking you, darling."

"Maybe not," she said. "But I'd still rather see your head disconnected from your shoulders."

"If you want to do that you can mange it yourself, eventually, without any help."

The look in her eyes suggested that Abaddon, at least, could acknowledge the reality in that. She sat back against her couch, which was pure white. Must be new, or maybe she was a good hand with bloodstains. Yes, he could envision her on her hands and knees in a little dress, scrubbing away.

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if she could read his mind. But she didn't move. Instead she stayed where she was, lazy and confident, like a tiger, her shoulders thrown back and her chin at a haughty angle. Knights of Hell were ridiculous creatures, and while they had been chosen by Lucifer himself, there wasn't much else to them. They were overrated soldiers, and they came from a time of war. It had passed, and she was a rare and dying breed; she was simply too stupid to see it yet.

"Alright," she said. She patted the seat beside her, but instead he took the chair next to the couch. She narrowed her eyes at him in annoyance, but didn't remark on it. "So what did you want to talk about, Crowley?" she asked. "Not going to convince me to back off, I hope. Because there's nothing you could threaten me with or sell to me to get me to do that."

"I've no intention in doing any such thing," he said. "I actually don't think you're smart enough to be convinced to take the clever way out, Abaddon."

"What a gentleman."

"Actually," he continued. "I'm here to deal with you, but not in the way you think. I want you to promise me you'll move forward in your takeover."

That surprised her; her eyebrows flinched, slightly. But Abaddon wasn't completely a fool, it seemed, because even as her ruby lips twisted into a smile, she leaned forward, locking her gaze on him. "What's your catch, Crowley?" she asked.

"No catch."

"Bull. Shit."

"Terms," he corrected, with an idle wave of his hand. "I'm here to propose terms. Not catches. In warfare, there are always rules to battle, or else no one would ever really win. And I'm interested in winning, darling."

"Why the Hell would I agree to any terms you set down?"

"Because you'd agree with them as much as I do," he replied. "You're going to die, Abaddon. I'll make sure of it. The demons of Hell are going to flock under my banner, and you'll be entirely alone when your head is finally lopped off. But I promise you - I won't be the one to do it."

She laughed. She leaned forward and pushed herself to her feet; he kept a careful eye on her as she rounded the coffee table, but she was just going to the bar. "You drink Craig, right?" she asked.

"Indefinitely."

"Well, right now you're going to drink whatever the Hell I tell you to drink. As a polite guest."

Hanging around in Josie Sands' body had apparently tamed something in Abaddon - at least, she seemed less savage as she began to calmly shake the contents of a cocktail in her shaker. Back in the days of Mad Men she'd probably had to play hostess at least once. "Well," she said, thoughtfully, as if martini making helped her to think. "If you're going where I think you're going with this, you're suggesting we continue on as we are, but you're going to promise not to actually, directly kill me. And I assume you're going to ask the same thing of me."

"Naturally." Crowley would not need to kill Abaddon himself - not once he found the First Blade, and put it in Dean Winchester's hands. In this way, he never intended to slaughter Abaddon himself. In most cases he liked to reserve dirty work for someone else's hands, though he often had to complete the more important tasks himself - in this situation, though, he would get both or not at all.

Abaddon strained out two slightly foggy martinis, then handed him one. He watched her take a sip of hers first, just in case she had slipped holy water in; he inspected the glass as well for any telltale residue, but there was none. On first taste, it was just a passable martini, though not very dry. "You have to practice making these, love," he remarked.

"Now," she said, continuing as if she hadn't heard him, drawing her legs up on the couch. "Why would I bother to enter a contract with you?"

"Because if killing me were to solve all of your problems, you would have done it by now," he said. "You need support under your belt before you can fully take over Hell - and taking me out won't prove to the demons who still doubt you that you're in control. Simply that you're fierce. You don't have the strength or manpower to control the workings of every single demon out there. You need their trust and their fear to make them do whatever you want, even when you're not around; and if you can't manage that, you can never control Hell. You can't even get demons to attack me when you're right there," he added, with a chuckle.

"An anomaly."

"Which you will find occurring everywhere."

Abaddon narrowed her eyes at him, rolling the liquid in her glass around a little. "So that's it?" she asked. "Those are the terms? We can fight one another as we see fit, but we don't administer a killing blow to each other?"

"Yes."

"What if I have people kill you?"

"Naturally that's allowed," Crowley said. "But more difficult to manage, and a lot of room for error. The same goes for if I send people to kill you."

"So you're just going to assume I don't send an army of demons at you to take you apart after this."

"You could do that to me right now," he pointed out. "I don't see how making a deal would change that. I'm simply erasing you, directly, as a threat - and then you can erase me the same way."

"You could never kill me. You can't match me."

"So?" He spread his hands wide, in a look-at-the-big-picture way. "What's the problem, then?"

"I gain nothing."

"Are you so frightened of your chances that you can't agree to a simple gentleman's contract?"

That got her. A bit of blood rushed to her cheeks, not in embarrassment, but annoyance. She set her martini down. "You want me to fight fair," she said. "When we're demons."

"I want to fight on even ground, as rulers of Hell."

"So you get to amass all of your little frightened, political followers, and gain power that way. And I can't strike at you as I like."

"But you think demons are just as chaotic and brutal as you," he said. "Don't you have the strength to follow your convictions?"

Abaddon glared, but he had a point and they both knew it. It was her good sense telling her not to agree; but her pride demanded that she could beat Crowley, on any playing field, no matter what the stakes. And the terms were so low, so simple, that he knew she wasn't really unnerved by them. She simply suspected a trick (as she should) but, not finding it, was confused as to how to proceed.

"Alright," she said, finally.

"Alright?"

"Alright," she said. "I won't kill you, not with my own two hands-"

"-Or a weapon held in your own two hands," he added.

She looked annoyed. "Yes," she agreed. "And you will agree to do the same. However, we may move against each other as we wish, and amass our followers, gain influence, and execute a takeover. But I have one thing to add."

"And that is?"

"When one of us has won," she said, darkly, in a tone that stated _she_ would be the winner, " _truly_ won, and have conquered Hell, then we are allowed to kill the other. For the satisfaction of victory."

That wasn't fair - unlike him Abaddon could be killed only one way, and this, he assumed, was what she saw as her advantage. To admit he knew that would be losing an important chip when it came to manipulating her, though, and fed back through the rest of the deal. In this way, Crowley had to pretend to accidentally lose. "Agreed."

"Good."

"Shall we draw up a contract?"

Abaddon leaned forward. Her eyes had turned sultry, dark and dangerous; if Crowley looked closely enough he imagined he could see the smoke behind them, as violent and raging as a forest fire. "I'm not afraid of you, Crowley," she said. "I don't need to hedge my bets."

He laughed, because he knew that if she wasn't foolish, then she was definitely afraid. Hell had feared him, rightly; how else had he managed to become its King? But he had used her pride to bait her in, and he would keep going with it. That was the plan, after all. "Let's go, then," he said. "The old fashioned way. The best way, really."

Abaddon picked up her martini and finished it; he did the same. She seemed to be thinking about something, and for a moment, Crowley doubted himself. Had something wickedly clever occurred to her that he had missed? Had she found a loophole? He was a master of sales and contracts, and yet she was so old, and fierce - maybe she was even clever in ways beyond his own intelligence.

But ah, too late now.

Abaddon got to her feet, and he stood, too. She moved slow and willowy, every single brush of her limbs like grass in the wind. She came close to him and he could smell her perfume, see the sheen of her red lipstick. Was that why Abaddon refused to let go of her body? She could take over anything she wanted, and yet she stubbornly stuck to poor Josie Sands. Was it that even a violent warrior like herself understood the power of desire, as much as rage? A meatsuit like Josie was powerful in more ways than one. Perhaps Abaddon wasn't completely stupid.

But she was stupid enough to pit herself against him.

He kept his eyes on her as he leaned in close; her pupils seemed dilated with a desirous rage, the way objects seemed enlarged when looking through a glass of scotch. Was it her perception, or his own, that he was seeing? She seemed to hiss, physically, like her whole body was burning, and as she came towards him Crowley had the sensation of staring down a cobra as it was about to strike.

Kissing felt like a collision, even though he was aware it was not - a careful stepping in of both of them, a contained movement to press their lips together, simple, contractual, (laughably) virginal. And yet her lips burned against his own, and he tasted sulphur and blood and roses, and something else, something very old, like dust in a tomb. To seal a deal was to give up something. A signature, a kiss, was a small subjugation, a bonding movement to show faith in an exchange that would soon be completed. He tasted her lipstick.

Quite suddenly Abaddon's hands were fisting into his jacket, pulling him close. He realized and remembered, almost with a distant amusement, that she was a couple of inches taller than he was.

"I knew it," she breathed against his lips. She sounded both distraught and victorious; Crowley fastened a hand around one of her wrists, in warning.

"Careful, love," he said, but his voice, when it came out, surprised him. It was smoky and low, not at all annoyed, as he had intended. "We don't want you to break a nail."

"No?" she asked. She was still staring him down as a hunter might a tiger, and Crowley's free hand reached up to tug on a tendril of vibrant red hair. Someplace on her face twitched; it was too fast to see where, but he knew it had, and he felt pleased about it. 

"Unless you want to," he said.

She dragged him closer, about half an inch, and their foreheads pressed together. It was thrilling to see her this way. He found her brutish and animalistic, yes; but there was a beauty in such creatures, too. He just didn't really think they deserved to be rulers of the jungle. 

The next kiss was a genuine surprise - he would have been less startled if she had decided to try to bite his nose off. Her hands released his jacket, shook off his grip, and clamped against the back of his head, making sure he stayed close. That caused a little wriggle of annoyance to surface in him, and he grasped the belt loops of her jeans, tugging her forward against him.

Abaddon pushed into him - he stepped forward - and suddenly they were fighting, her nails scraping down the back of his neck, one of his fists digging into her belly in a punch. They went down, striking the coffee table, which Abaddon quickly kicked out of the way with an enraged shout, muffled against his mouth.

He managed to pull away from her, slightly, but she was clutching at him like a mountain climber to a rock face. "What are you trying to pull, Abaddon?" he hissed. "We just made a deal."

She started laughing. For a minute he thought he might have bitten her or she him, but then he realized that her lipstick had smeared. "I know," she said. "So let's break nails, Crowley."

She was pressing in on him and he raised his hand, curling it around the back of her neck, keeping her close. By rights he ought to have pushed her away. But while he was wildly suspicious he had to admit it felt _correct_ somehow. Not right - never right - but it had its place, like a knife in the side.

"Or I could go," he said. 

She said something very, very rude to him in an old language he hadn't heard in a long time, but he just laughed, and she grinned at him, distorting that pretty face into something a lot less wholesome. He reached down, popping the button to her jeans, and sliding his hand inside.

He touched her through the silky fabric of her panties, and she made a sound in the back of her throat. She threw herself against him, twisting around, grabbing hold of him, and then rather roughly bit him just behind his ear. He hissed and shifted, jabbing his elbow out, catching her slightly in the side. "Go on," she said, egging him on, as if she was teasing him and not ordering him around, "Go on. Touch me."

Hell, she was annoying, but she was also damn entertaining.

He shifted and slipped his hand underneath the waistband of her panties, further down and between her legs. She made a noise, like the purr of a wildcat, grabbing the arm of his jacket and dragging him down. Instead of biting him this time she sucked at a spot on his neck, and he supposed if she was going to do that he may as well accommodate her a bit more.

He would be lying if this was just a little bit exciting or intense - it was much more than that. Abaddon was a frightening creature, and even being in the same room as her was always a learning experience. This, then, was a hundred times that as he deftly touched her, feeling her wet and hot against his fingertips. 

The viciousness that her body encased was pulsing against his. He couldn't look at her directly, she was too close to him with her mouth trailing over his skin, but each part of her he could see was straining and twisting as he curled his fingers and circled her clit. She made a muffled noise and bit down on the tendon of his neck.

Crowley shifted, pushing her back and down against the floor. She resisted, but only slightly; what he was doing below her waist seemed to be taking most of the rebellion out of her. Oh, if only he'd known that about her before.

She murmured in his ear, again in that old language, but it brought a shiver rolling down his back. What she whispered were dark things, quiet stories that most demons didn't even like to mutter, but she said them with a cool efficiency. Was she threatening him, or trying to turn him on? Or both? She stroked her nails down his back, shuddered and arched underneath him as he played her like an instrument.

He shook himself free slightly and turned his head so he could catch Abaddon's mouth in another kiss. It didn't last for long, though, because she wouldn't stay still. When he pressed two fingers inside of her she bucked against him and snarled, her nails digging into the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. Then she came and it was as savage as the rest of her, and he had that instant of her coiling against him as if she wanted him, before she relaxed.

It was only a second of complacency, but Crowley took advantage of it, shaking her off and rising. She made a sound of protest and grabbed at him, but he extricated himself quickly. If Abaddon wanted him beyond this, well, then he was going to play hard to get. In a manner of speaking.

Mostly he just wanted to piss her off.

"Are you serious, you son of a bitch?" she fumed.

"Until next time, love," he said, once he was out of her reach. Right before he disappeared, though, he saw her throw a grin at him, big and white. 

He didn't know why until he felt blood trickle down his neck. When he moved to touch the wound and inspect it, he found that the tip of one of her carefully manicured nails had broken off in his flesh.


End file.
